I'm Dreaming of a Christmas Quilt

     Searching through bolts of yard goods for a particular color and pattern of homespun proved fruitless at this particular fabric store. However the display of seasonal textiles was astonishing - shelf after shelf of holiday prints from muted primitive shades to classic green, red and whites to flashy, sparkly modern designs - the selection was awesome and absorbing. What really caught my eye, however, was an array of quilts atop the display cases, and in particular, these two which feature split complementary color schemes. I was fascinated by the intricate patterns and quilting but even more so by the red, gray and white palette - oh, how I fancied these and imagined them in a room with comparable colors!

Below are two closer looks at the exquisite craftsmanship.

Matthew aka Yukon Cornelius

     Nephew Matt is a good guy. Really, he is loving, kind, funny, generous, hard-working and cute to boot. He knows how much I love him, therefore he expects a little good-natured ribbing once in awhile. It is nigh on Christmas week and I also love the seasonal television specials, so when Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was telecast last night, I just had to watch it. The animated classic, which first aired in 1964 when I was, ahem, ten years old, is a favorite and I've seen it so many times that I can recite the  lines and sing the soundtrack songs word for word. Anyway, when Yukon Cornelius made his appearance, I immediately thought of Matt. They both sport a similar brick-colored beard and mustache and maintain a comparable masculine bravado. Put a red knit beanie and a green shirt on Matt and the resemblance is uncanny!

A Visit with Santa in 1960

     The Christmas season prompts lots of memories; old photographs can do the same. Combining the two is an extra-special treat and a case in point is this snapshot of myself and two little sisters visiting Santa Claus, probably at a local department store. Taken in 1960, it is notable for baby Peggy's snowsuit, Mary's pink matching coat and hat, and for their very short bangs. I sported longer hair that was probably in braids. I don't remember the visit, but I remember clearly the innocent delight and rapture that precipitated Santa's arrival.

     But back to photographs, imagine my initial astonishment when a friend recently posted the following image on Facebook. It is quite obviously the same Santa, same setting and probably even the same year. Twins, Maureen and Kathleen, were classmates of mine during all eight years of elementary school at St. Dismas Parish. Their mom must have been a fan of short bangs as well! 

Peanut Butter Brownie Bites

     Peanut butter and chocolate are good go-togethers. These rich little brownie bites were served on the birthday of a pb&c fan. He loved the flavor combination and I loved the morsels that topped the peanut butter filling!

Christmasy Clay Pot Tower

     Flower towers are popular for patios and yards during the summer months. I chose to create this holiday tower after the plants in the largest pot died back from cold. That pot was the centerpiece of a garden that I established to  hide the stump of a recently removed tree (see below). The petunias, basil and sweet potato vine were very pretty but zoysia grass crept in over the tree root area pretty quickly, as I had hoped. However, I liked the low wide pot in its place atop the smooth flat stump, so I decided to try a winter theme.

     On my daily walk I gathered pine cones from a neighbor's yard and snipped some berry-laden holly branches from several shrubs that border the parking lot at my office. The evergreen fronds were clipped from a couple of arborvitae that have grown quite large in my own backyard. The only money spent was at the Dollar Tree Store for a package of shiny red ornaments. So on an almost warm Saturday afternoon when I should have been raking leaves, I dug through my collection of pots on a shelf in the garage, picked out two of graduated size and filled them with gravel and potting soil. Assembling was the fun part - first placing the pine cones and solar light, then the holly, the fir branches and finally the ornaments. I love the naturalistic look of my clay pot tower and can't wait for the first snow, which will cover the leaves and brown grass and highlight the holiday colors!

Mom's Chicken-Fried Pork Chops

     I call these Mom's - probably every baby boomer whose mother used the Betty Crocker Cookbook had them the same way. They are one of the only meats that I actually fry (unless you call bologna a meat!), preferring less fatty ways of cooking. Dipped in an egg/milk mixture and then in seasoned cracker crumbs, the chops are browned in hot oil till they are crispy and golden on both sides. Serving them with fresh steamed brocolli redeems the nutritional value of the meal a bit, and a small slice of homemade oatmeal bread completes one of Pop's favorite dinners.

Tale of the Powdered Floor

     The tale of the powdered floor has been stored away for a generation or more; my sisters and I have chuckled about it once or twice but we always suppose it has no significance to anyone else. And, of course, we are wrong.


     On this Sunday, the first in January to follow the holiday season, I am visiting my mother, who still lives in the large house where I spent my childhood. My granddaughter has accompanied me on this occasion to help carry boxes of Christmas decorations up the stairs to the second story and into the attic over the garage. She is seven years old and curious, having no notion of the nuances of an attic; therefore the girl who loves scary movies and delights in hide-n-seek, is anxious to do some exploring. But she doesn’t like the cobwebs or the chilly air, and when we are finished and the small door (which is just her size!) is firmly shut against the dimness, the dusty boxes and old luggage, she wants to investigate the rest of the upper story.
      I tell her the dormered bedroom to the left of the stairs belonged to my older brother, who had his own room as a result of being the only boy for so long. The access door to the attic is in this small room but usually hidden behind a chest of drawers. (Brother was playing with matches one day and accidentally burned a hole in his throw rug. He rolled up the rug and shoved it in the attic, hoping against really bad odds that no one would notice). Directly across the square landing from Brother’s, is another small dormered room where my grandmother slept. She was a widow who lived with us for many years and was a working woman before it was fashionable for a lady to have a career. (On more than one morning, Grandmother would call us to her room in a firm but slightly frantic manner, where she would be sitting on top of the bed with her feet drawn up off the floor. Our gerbils would escape their cage, find refuge in Grandmother’s closet, and a roundup would ensue).


     The last door off the landing opens to a large, light filled room that spans the back of the house and has four windows overlooking the backyard. To the right is a bathroom and a large walk-in closet (built at a time when walk-in closets weren’t the norm yet either). At the other end is also a closet, but one that had been the envy of all our small friends – a child could crawl under the hanging clothes and emerge in a closet that led into Brother’s room as well. It was, at various times, a hideout or a quick getaway. But best of all, with the lower shelf emptied of paraphernalia, and then outfitted with a desk lamp and a long extension cord, it became a secret clubhouse where we sat on the floor and crayoned in coloring books, drew pictures of horses or did homework.

     Granddaughter is politely interested in my narrative but the only story she really likes, of course, is the tale of the powdered floor. Now covered with plush carpeting, the original linoleum tile of the big bedroom was smooth enough but when sprinkled with a little talcum powder became a sort of skating rink, a place for limber skinny bodies to slip and slide on stockinged feet. Great fun until Grandmother, who was neither skinny nor limber, made a midnight visit to the bathroom and slipslided onto her backside.


     As Granddaughter and I tour this house of memories, I become nostalgic. Not for childhood innocence or teenage thrills but for some object or material thing. The big bedroom holds no trace of the little girls that played and worked, slept and scrapped through those years...no hairless teddy bear or baby dolls …no Nancy Drew book or box of carefully sharpened crayons...no saddle shoes or knee socks...no fountain pens or book bags piled on the small desk (now even the desk is gone). My eyes sweep over that bedroom that now assumes the role of a den, and observe the matching brocade love seats that face a small television, replacing the three twin beds of some indeterminate blond wood, and I note the venetian blinds blocking out the sunny view that was once framed by pairs of worn but frilly yellow cotton curtains.

     A silent sigh escapes me but Granddaughter notices. She grins and remarks that things must have been really different “back then”. I agree with her, musing that it wasn’t actually that long ago, and as I see the precocious twinkle in her eye and take her hand, I realize that this day will become a part of her own “back then”.

2008